A Hat Full Of Sky - Terry Pratchett [70]
“Did I say all that aloud?” she asked.
“Oh, aye.”
“Er…it did all happen, didn’t it?” said Tiffany.
“Oh, aye,” said Daft Wullie cheerfully. “The big hag o’ hags wuz up here till just noo, but she said ye probably wasna gonna wake up a monster.”
More bits of memory landed in Tiffany’s head like red-hot rocks landing on a peaceful planet.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, aye,” said Daft Wullie.
“And Miss Level?”
And this rock of memory was huge, a flaming mountain that’d make a million dinosaurs flee for their lives. Tiffany’s hands flew to her mouth.
“I killed her!” she said.
“Noo, then, ye didna—”
“I did! I felt my mind thinking it. She made me angry! I just waved my hand like this”—a dozen Nac Mac Feegle dived for cover—“and she just exploded into nothing! It was me! I remember!”
“Aye, but the hag o’ hags said it wuz usin’ your mind tae think with—” Daft Wullie began.
“I’ve got the memories! It was me, with this hand!” The Feegles who had raised their heads ducked back down again. “And…the memories I’ve got…I remember dust, turning into stars…things…the heat…blood…the taste of blood…I remember…I remember the seeme trick! Oh, no! I practically invited it in! I killed Miss Level!”
Shadows were closing in around her vision, and there was a ringing in her ears. Tiffany heard the door swing open, and hands picked her up as though she was as light as a bubble. She was slung over a shoulder and carried swiftly down the stairs and out into the bright morning, where she was swung down onto the ground.
“…And all of us…we killed her…take one crucible of silver…” she mumbled.
A hand slapped her sharply across the face. She stared through inner mists at the tall dark figure in front of her. A bucket handle was pressed firmly into her hand.
“Milk the goats now, Tiffany! Now, Tiffany, d’you hear! The trusting creatures look to you! They wait for you! Tiffany milks the goats. Do it, Tiffany! The hands know how, the mind will remember and grow stronger, Tiffany!”
She was thrust down into the milking stall and, through the mist in her head, made out the cowering shape of…of…Black Meg.
The hands remembered. They placed the pail, grasped a teat, and then, as Meg raised a leg to play the foot-in-the-bucket game, grabbed it and forced it safely back down onto the milking platform.
She worked slowly, her head full of hot fog, letting her hands have their way. Buckets were filled and emptied, milked goats got a bucket of feed from the bin….
Sensibility Bustle was rather puzzled that his hands were milking a goat. He stopped.
“What is your name?” said a voice behind him.
“Bustle. Sensibil—”
“No! That was the wizard, Tiffany! He was the strongest echo, but you’re not him! Get into the dairy, Tiffany!”
She stumbled into the cool room under the command of that voice, and the world focused. There was a foul cheese on the slab, sweating and stinking.
“Who put this here?” she asked.
“The hiver did, Tiffany. Tried to make a cheese by magic, Tiffany. Hah! And you are not it, Tiffany! You know how to make cheese the right way, don’t you, Tiffany? Indeed you do! What is your name?”
…all was confusion and strange smells. In panic, she roared—
Her face was slapped again.
“No, that was the saber-toothed tiger, Tiffany! They’re all just old memories the hiver left behind, Tiffany! It’s worn a lot of creatures, but they are not you! Come forward, Tiffany!”
She heard the words without really understanding them. They were just out there somewhere, between people who were just shadows. But it was unthinkable to disobey them.
“Drat!” said the hazy tall figure, “where’s that little blue feller? Mr. Anyone?”
“Here, mistress. It’s Rob Anybody, mistress. I beg o’ ye not tae turn me intae somethin’ unnatural, mistress!”
“You said she had a box of keepsakes. Fetch it down here this minute. I feared this might happen. I hates doin’ it this way!”
Tiffany was turned around and once again looked into the